


all the moscow gentlemen are mad about him

by ernestdummkompf (JehanFerres)



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: I think?, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, also i wanted hélène to have fun, but i would say this is period-typical, but they're. subtle. about it tbh, for once, given that she isn't alive in the other fic im writing, he deserves it, i don't know a whole lot about 19th century russia, its time.......for Canon Divergence, pierre has a good evening, there's some background pierre/andrey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-15 11:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11229804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/ernestdummkompf
Summary: “Anatole?” she said gently as she knocked. “Anatole, it’s me, can I come in?”She waited for Anatole’s response, but pushed the door open anyway when she got none. Usually she wouldn’t intrude upon her brother but what he had just experienced couldn’t have been anything but distressing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this was actually meant to be just a quick palate cleanser while i was stuck on my other fic for this fandom but honestly i couldn't bear to leave it. i love dolokhov and anatole and im a sucker for Gay Stuff.
> 
> i didn't know what to call this. tbh i STILL don't know what to call this.

Anatole was terrified, but also utterly smitten.

He had seen Dolokhov do some stupid things in the past for a bet, of course, but this was just about the most idiotic thing he had ever done. There was “fifty roubles on Hélène sleeping with that man tonight”, which Dolokhov had won a few nights ago but then there was “drink this whole bottle of rum while sitting on the ledge of a third-floor window”.

Naturally, Dolokhov was happy to do this. It was rum and money, both things that Dolokhov felt _extremely_ positively about. So he was sat on the window-ledge, holding onto nothing, and swigging from the bottle of rum while swinging his legs. Every so often he would seem to falter and Anatole would feel like he was about to throw up, but somehow he was still alive.

Hélène was circulating the room with a glass of wine, and if she was worried about Dolokhov she wasn’t showing it. Pierre had left after being told to not, under any circumstances, sit out the window like Dolokhov was doing because he couldn’t hold his liquor, and he was certainly doing something. Anatole didn’t know what, and he didn’t particularly want to know.

“Stop fretting.” Hélène slipped her hand into Anatole’s when she saw him look at the back of Dolokhov’s head for what felt like the thousandth time that minute. “He’s a grown man; he can take care of himself.” She rolled her eyes, the added air of _and he’s an idiot_ obvious behind her words. “Dance with me. He’ll be fine.”

Anatole cast a glance back at Dolokhov, who was swinging the bottle around and absently passing it from hand to hand, the show off. Hélène put her hand on Anatole’s cheek to force him to look at her. “There. You can throw yourself into his arms when he’s done, he’ll be as drunk as he was to begin with.”

Of course, Hélène was keeping her eye on Dolokhov too, and was completely ready to spring into action and dispatch somebody to scoop (or rather, she allowed herself to think for a moment, _scrape_ ) him up while bundling Anatole out of the room to keep him from seeing anything too graphic, if Dolokhov _did_ fall. But she also felt confident that all his apparent wavering was posturing. He would be fine. If anything, Hélène thought shrewdly, he was actively trying to get Anatole’s attention.

Well. He certainly had it.

Anatole was a pitiful dancer at the best of times but when he was sick with worry as he felt now he was hopeless. Of course, young girls enraptured by his charms – of which there were certainly many – wouldn’t tell him this and would lavish compliments upon him. It went right to his head, of course, and he wouldn’t listen to anybody telling him otherwise.

Eventually, after having her feet trodden on twice and being spun into other dancers no less than three times, Hélène gave up on the pretence of her brother leading and took over instead. She was slightly tempted to tread on his feet in retaliation but she could tell he was terrified; it wouldn’t be fair. But she had put herself in a position where she could essentially keep an eye on Dolokhov – who was still fine – while making sure Anatole couldn’t see him and worry himself further. Perfect, really.

Anatole was easy enough to distract for the ten minutes it took for him to stop shaking and for Dolokhov to finish his bottle of rum. She was facing towards him when he slid elegantly back in the window, the only indicators of the rum in his system being the empty bottle in his hand and the slight flush that had spread across his cheeks – but even that could be put down to the cold out there. The nights in Moscow were unpleasantly cold, especially out of a third-floor window.

She spun Anatole away from Dolokhov, and gestured for the young Hussar to come up behind Anatole. He was probably going to get grabbed and Hélène and Dolokhov were both going to get the silent treatment from Anatole, but it would be worth it for the look on his face.

Dolokhov snuck stealthily through out of Anatole’s line of sight, depositing the bottle of rum on a table out of Anatole’s reach so that he wouldn’t get too badly hurt if Anatole was angry rather than relieved. There was only so much damage that a man so slight could do with only his bare hands, especially to Dolokhov. She had seen for herself how quickly Dolokhov could subdue Anatole. Of course, he didn’t have that effect upon _Hélène_ – but nor did any other man.

Dolokhov was close enough now that he could just reach over and transfer Anatole from Hélène to himself, but of course that would be too easy, and not seductive enough for his tastes. Instead, he quickly reached and put a hand over Anatole’s eyes at the same time as Hélène released his hands and arms. Dolokhov moved himself out of range of Anatole’s extremely sharp elbows. When Anatole registered that he was back, he shoved his head back so that he could see out again. Hélène slunk away and he spun around to face Dolokhov.

“ _Bastard_.” Anatole put his hand out to slap Dolokhov across the face. Dolokhov caught hold of his wrists and spun him around, pinning Anatole’s hands against his hips. He was much stronger than Anatole, and much less easy than Anatole to seduce. Anatole unwillingly melted back against him.

“ _Fiesty_.” Dolokhov smirked, leaning close to his ear.

“I know I am,” Anatole muttered, unwillingly pressing against Dolokhov. “Let go of my hands?”

Knowing that he was going to get slapped, Dolokhov did so. Anatole spun around and, as Dolokhov had predicted, slapped him half-heartedly across the face, and then shoved his lips against Dolokhov’s. “And what makes you think I’m _that_ way inclined, Kuragin?” Dolokhov asked, after what felt like hours, shoving Anatole against a wall with a smirk but without any real aggression.

“What makes you think you _aren’t_?” Anatole smirked, clearly desperate to kiss Dolokhov again. Dolokhov put a hand between his clavicles, just lower than his throat, his other hand on Anatole’s back. “And I thought I might just try my hand.” He glanced away from Dolokhov’s face for a moment, and moved his right hand from Dolokhov’s shoulder down his chest.

If the other revellers had noticed what Dolokhov and Anatole were doing (which they almost certainly had), or more accurately what Dolokhov was doing to Anatole, they were giving no indication of it. Apart from Hélène, of course, who was quietly celebrating with a pretty young woman Dolokhov had brother with him.

“Well if _that’s_ what you mean by trying your hand you’re more than welcome to,” Dolokhov hissed, against Anatole’s ear. “Although if you have what I think you have in mind we may be better to retire.”

Anatole needed no further encouragement, and grabbed Dolokhov by the collar of his shirt. Both he and Dolokhov were clumsily drunk, and Dolokhov rarely went in for kissing anybody. But Anatole still pulled him closer with a hand pulling on Dolokhov’s hair and his other hand still fisted in the front of Dolokhov’s shirt. One of Dolokhov’s arms was around his waist, while his other hand was braced against the wall, because he would probably lose his balance if he didn’t grab onto something.

“You don’t actually want to be in here, do you Fedya?” It wasn’t so much a question as a desperate request from Anatole. Dolokhov was more than happy to take him up on it.

“Your room,” he growled, dragging Anatole away from the wall by his wrist and shoving him past Hélène from the room. “We won’t be disturbed there.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind if we were.” Anatole grabbed Dolokhov by the wrist and dragged him off down the hallway. “And I very much doubt you would either, Fedya; I’ve seen how you are.”

Pierre had found Hélène and her young lady, now drunken and having somehow managed to miss Dolokhov being dragged off by Anatole because he was asking where they were. “They’ve retired to Anatole’s room,” Hélène said, in a tone that she hoped would indicate just what “retiring” entailed.

For a moment, Pierre seemed not to have the foggiest idea what she meant, but then his eyes widened. “I… goodness,” he said, clearly at a loss for words. Hélène slipped her hand through his arm and gazed coquettishly up at Pierre. “But… Dolokhov? He always seemed… quite taken with the young ladies.”

“And with the young _men_ , Petrushka,” Hélène laughed. “Well… I can’t imagine they’ll be gone _long_ ,” she said wryly. “What with how worked up they–”

“Oh, _hush_ , Hélène,” Pierre yelped, swatting at her, scandalised but clearly _interested_.

“If you’re so scandalised,” Hélène suggested, “dance with me.”

“You’ve seen me dance,” Pierre laughed awkwardly, running a hand through his hair and removing his glasses to polish them.

“I’ve had worse,” she said, with what she hoped was obvious innuendo. Pierre didn’t rise to it.

“Have you seen Dolokhov?” That was the young man that Dolokhov had made the bet with. “I saw him come back in the window, but he seemed preoccupied.”

“He was,” Hélène agreed, seeing a way to scandalise the poor naïve boy. “He went with Anatole to his chambers. I’m sure he’ll be _very_ glad to get his money.”

Pierre’s eyes widened. Hélène swiftly twisted his arm up and behind his back until the young officer was gone to keep him from saying anything. “Down the hall and to the left!” she called after him. “You can’t miss it.”

Pierre looked utterly horrified, even after Hélène released his arm. “God,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “That poor boy; he’ll never forgive you what he’s about to see.”

Hélène giggled. “Oh, but you mustn’t breathe a word that you knew,” she said, grabbing his hands and spinning him around and onto the dance floor, feeling more than happy with herself. “See, you _can_ dance,” she added.

“Where do I…?” Pierre fumbled awkwardly with his hands for a moment, until Hélène took mercy upon him and guided his left hand to the rip of her waist. “And I hold onto your right hand?”

“Other way up.” Hélène shifted their hands around and then settled her hand on his shoulder. Pierre stumbled awkwardly around, until Hélène finally decided to stop him. “Silly boy. Do you want me to lead?” she asked.

“Oh, thank God,” Pierre laughed. “I’d rather go backwards than risk treading on your toes.” Hélène laughed charmingly, spinning Pierre around in a manner that made it obvious that she should have been leading to begin with. “So… your brother,” Pierre began, his voice low.

“Everybody here saw them earlier, speak normally,” Hélène said.

“I didn’t!” Pierre was keen to gossip.

Only happy to indulge him, Hélène leaned close to his ear. “When Dolokhov came back in the window he grabbed Anatole. Then they were close to ripping each-other’s clothes off where they stood.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Round to your left, Pierre.”

“Right you are,” Pierre said, and then giggled at the unintentional pun. “But did you _know_ before?” he asked, curious. “About… well, either of them. Because I didn’t.”

Hélène’s hand slipped from his shoulder to rest on his chest. “Oh, of _course_.” When Pierre looked curious, she continued. “Dolokhov enjoys _nothing_ more than bringing young men back to his rooms. And he’s always undressing Anatole with his eyes.” She smiled scandalously. “And Anatole... _well_.” Her eyes lit up. “I certainly know who he thinks about when–”

“Stop! Stop,” Pierre sputtered, considering putting his hand over her mouth. That was _far_ more than he wanted to know. “I’ve certainly seen them affectionate,” he conceded. “But I always thought it was… within the bounds of friendship.”

“Oh, you _are_ innocent, aren’t you?” Hélène said, endeared. She patted him on the cheek when he didn’t reply, and he didn’t shy away from it. How sweet. “No, there’s innocent touches between friends, and then there’s my brother and Dolokhov. Haven’t you _seen_ them slathering all over one another?” she asked.

“Well… no. Not really,” Pierre replied. Maybe he just hadn’t been looking. “I’ve seen them embrace, but it just seemed… fraternal.” He frowned.

“Would you act with Prince Bolkonsky the way my brother acts with Dolokhov?” Hélène raised her eyebrows, thinking that she knew what the answer would be. When there was no answer, she gasped delightedly. “Oh, you _would_ , wouldn’t you?” She grinned. Quite overcome with how awkward he suddenly looked, Hélène threw her arms around his neck, and lead him away from the dance floor to a couch. “ _Bolkonsky_ , eh?”

“He has a _wife_ , Hélène!” Pierre seemed more scandalised by the implicit affair than his and Andrey’s respective genders.

“And…” Hélène looked around and lowered her voice. “So does my brother. That hasn’t stopped Dolokhov from taking him off to–”

“ _Hush_ , Hélène.” Pierre went red.

“Hush yourself!” She poked him on the nose. “You _must_ pursue him.”

“You make a lot of assumptions.” Pierre attempted, but failed, to raise one eyebrow. Hélène fell about laughing.

Just as she was about to quiz him further about the precise nature of his feelings for Bolkonsky, there was a great commotion from the hallway. Hélène immediately leapt to her feet, filled with panic, and caught sight of a shirtless Dolokhov sprinting down the hallway with what was either a pistol or a sword after the officer who had been looking for him. He yelled something after the boy that didn’t register but was certainly a threat from the tone of his voice.

“Oh, _Hélène_.” Bless him, Pierre looked to be on the verge of tears, one hand pressed over his mouth. “Should I go after Dolokhov?” he asked worriedly.

“Yes,” Hélène suddenly remembered herself. “Yes, you should. And I will go and talk to my poor brother.” Her face went pale, and as Pierre ran out, she sped out after him and down the hall towards Anatole’s bedroom.

“Anatole?” she said gently as she knocked. “Anatole, it’s me, can I come in?”

She waited for Anatole’s response, but pushed the door open anyway when she got none. Usually she wouldn’t intrude upon her brother but what he had just experienced couldn’t have been anything but distressing.

Anatole froze, but then relaxed when she saw that it was just his sister. His expression was grim and he had half-dressed again, but in what was clearly Dolokhov’s shirt and not his own. Hélène sat him down on the bed, and tried to calm him as best she could.

He wasn’t crying, but that could mean anything, and probably didn’t mean that he wasn’t incredibly distressed, especially given that he was shaking. At a loss for how to comfort him otherwise, she took his hand between both of hers, massaging down from his knuckles to his wrist. “There now,” she said gently. “Are you alright?”

“A fine mess we’re in now,” Anatole said.

“Not with Pierre to reason with him,” Hélène soothed, still stroking his hand.

“And if he fails?” Anatole sounded genuinely panicked.

“Dolokhov has a pistol with him.” Anatole managed to laugh at that, hiding his head in Hélène’s shoulder. She tolerated it until she remembered what he’d just been doing. “Wash first. _Then_ you can touch me.”

With a look towards her, Anatole raised the hand that she was holding. “Oh, you _disgusting_ creature.” She poked him gently on the nose. “So, how was it?”

“I’m sure it would have been _very_ enjoyable,” Anatole said glumly. “If we hadn’t been interrupted.” He sulked for a moment, until the door opened again. Pierre gestured for Hélène to leave as Dolokhov returned, shivering and with a face like thunder.

Hélène left them to it and slipped her hand through Pierre’s arm, suddenly finding it difficult to stand. “It isn’t your fault.” Pierre could clearly sense her upset as she leaned into him. “You weren’t to know how he would react.”

“What did you do?” she asked, in a very small voice.

“Talked them both out of a duel.” Pierre grinned, looking proud of himself. Hélène stood up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I thought Dolokhov would shoot him there and then, really,” he admitted, sitting down beside Hélène on a couch back in the room they had come from.

“He certainly looked angry enough.”

“He won’t take it out on Anatole,” Pierre replied, sensing her worry. “They’ll be alright.”

“What did you _do_?” Hélène asked. “I was sure I would have a body on my hands; I’m _very_ impressed.”

“I paid the other gentleman off,” Pierre said, sounding annoyed.

“Oh, you sweet boy,” Hélène said, with real affection. “You would have been better off just letting Dolokhov duel him.” She tried to think of a slightly cheerier topic to move them onto. “Oh, but did you _see_ the way Anatole looked at him?” she asked, grinning.

“I didn’t see much of anything really,” Pierre admitted. “I need new glasses anyway, and they fogged up when I came in.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm, uh, i'm not sure how much longer i can continue to leave this with a t rating with my conscience intact. well, we'll see. either way, please tell me if u think i should change the age rating of this one because... man.
> 
> (also: pierre is paul dano pierre but taller because paul dano is just.........the ideal pierre even if he's A Little Short. he is also a physical manifestation in this fic of my asexuality; note that he only shows up when anatole and dolokhov are about to go and do something Inappropriate. and interrupts hélène when she starts talking about dolokhov or anatole's sex life.)
> 
> finally, architrave is stuff that goes around a door. it is one of my mother's favourite words.

Ordinarily, Hélène would have woken Anatole up the day after a party – partly to make sure he was still alive and partly to quiz him about his latest conquest, if there had been one. But, she reflected as she got off the couch she had fallen asleep on, that would almost certainly be a bad idea. For one thing, Dolokhov had looked furious enough to kill anybody who came to close to him, if they weren’t Anatole, and that was more than enough to put her off on its own.

Also, she had walked in on her little brother in bed with women far more than she had _ever_ wanted to. Seeing him and _Dolokhov_ at it, which she was certain would happen if she went to check on them, would probably just cause her to drop dead from a heart attack.

Instead, she gave Pierre, asleep flat out on his front with his head pillowed on his arms beside her couch, a gentle kick, and looked around. They were the last ones in the room, which meant that they could gossip in peace and wait for Dolokhov and Anatole to reappear, if they ever did so. The amount of time they had been circling around one another made her suspect that they weren’t going to resurface today.

“Pierre, dear boy.” She leaned down and shook his shoulder. “Pierre!” She dug her nails in when he didn’t immediately respond. Pierre groaned and rolled over, gazing at her out of bleary, hung-over eyes. “And good morning to you too,” she teased.

“G’morning,” Pierre finally managed to gather himself enough to mumble. “Did you sleep well?”

“Oh, you know,” Hélène said mischievously, even though she hadn’t done anything other than sleep. She shifted up so that Pierre could join her on the couch. He looked around the room with an expression mid-way between confusion and curiosity. “It’s just us up now; my brother and Dolokhov are…” She chose her words carefully “Still in bed.” And the place wasn’t in too much of a mess, for once. Their father _would_ be pleased. (Possibly not with Dolokhov and Anatole. But he _would_ be pleased with _her_ , which was what mattered more.)

“They won’t hear us talking about them?” Pierre asked self-consciously.

“Well, if they can, I imagine they’ll be too preoccupied to care.” She looked around. “How about we go downstairs? You look like you could use some tea.” Or any sort of liquid that didn’t have alcohol, really. He looked beyond dehydrated.

“Oh! That sounds like a good idea, yes,” Pierre said, with an amicable smile. He got to his feet, and then offered his hand to Hélène to help her up. For somebody obviously so _miserable_ , Hélène reflected, Pierre was always so kind and willing to help other people. Well, better that than sleep around, drink, and take idiotic bets as Dolokhov did. Maybe her brother would quell that inclination. (On the other hand, maybe pigs would sprout wings and soar off up into the upper atmosphere. There were equal odds on both.)

“Come along, then.” Hélène paused in the hallway within earshot of Anatole’s rooms for a moment, but when she heard nothing, incriminating or otherwise, she slipped her hand through Pierre’s arm and lead him down the stairs.

“Do they _know_ we can hear them talking about us?” Anatole asked idly, removing his head from the crook of Dolokhov’s neck, where he had been hiding his face so that his laughter wasn’t audible.

“Oh, I’m sure they do.” Dolokhov nudged Anatole off him and onto his back. “You know how Hélène is.” And, more to the point, so did Dolokhov. She would happily take up and opportunity to gossip about the sex lives of other people, even if it _was_ her brother and one of her best friends. “Do you think we ought to…” He tipped his head towards the door, but made no move to leave otherwise.

Anatole answered by wrapping his arms around Dolokhov’s neck and pulling the older man over and on top of him for a kiss. “Not for a while, at least,” Anatole replied. Dolokhov made no attempt to reply, instead wrapping his arm around Anatole’s waist and flipping them over so that Anatole was knelt over Dolokhov’s upper thighs.

Without leaning away from Anatole, who had moved to not so much pull at as grip Dolokhov’s hair with one hand, his other hand pressing Dolokhov back against the headboard, Dolokhov moved, shifting backwards and trailing the fingers of his right hand down Anatole’s chest and stomach. Anatole accidentally jerked Dolokhov’s head back when he reflexively pulled at his hair. In return, Dolokhov pulled his hand away.

Anatole whimpered. He _actually_ _whimpered_ , and if Dolokhov hadn’t desperately wanted to push him down on the bed or any other flat surface in the room and make him completely lose the power of speech, he probably would have laughed. As it was, he growled and bit at Anatole’s neck and shoulders and collarbones until Anatole finally groaned and pulled him up.

“Bastard,” Anatole mumbled, aware that Dolokhov knew exactly the effect he was having on him.

“Well, you seem to be enjoying it.” Dolokhov spread out the fingers of his right hand on Anatole’s back with a self-satisfied smirk. “What, do you want me to stop?” he asked, feigning innocence.

Anatole didn’t have a chance to reply, because he heard Hélène come running up the stairs. He growled and crawled off Dolokhov’s lap as she shouted through from the hallway. “Anatole! Fedya!” She sounded more panicked than she had last night. Dolokhov and Anatole exchanged a nervous look. “Both of you get downstairs.”

“But–” Anatole started to protest, leaning irritably against Dolokhov’s shoulder.

“No argument. Get downstairs _now_.”

Neither of them needed any further encouragement, and not for the first time, Anatole was glad that he and Dolokhov were similar in both height and build, because he could tell from the smell of it (rum and sweat and smoke) that he had accidentally put on Dolokhov’s shirt rather than his own. It was a little long in the arms, but hopefully whoever had caused the problem downstairs wouldn’t notice.

“This one’s yours.” The only thing that they couldn’t readily switch was their jackets, or at least not without making obvious what they had done last night – and, indeed, that morning. Dolokhov pressed the right one into Anatole’s hands and put on his own.

They were accosted at the foot of the stairs by Pierre, who looked worried and tearful. Anatole gave him a quick, nervous pat on the shoulder, not sure whether he should stay and find out what was wrong but still wanting to. “Your father,” Pierre explained. Anatole’s eyes widened and he grabbed Dolokhov by the cuff before he could go in and make an idiot of himself. “Hélène is trying to make him see sense. But he’s _furious_.”

“ _What happened?_ ” Dolokhov’s voice was even, but even Pierre could sense that he was thinking of all the ways in which he could break every one of Prince Vasily’s bones in the most painful manner possible.

Pierre took a step back before answering, and Anatole nervously gripped onto Dolokhov’s arm, partly for support but mainly to keep Dolokhov from over-reacting to the news and going in there and punching somebody. “He, ah, the young officer from last night must have recognised you.” Pierre took another, larger, step back when the colour completely drained from Dolokhov’s voice.

“I… see.” Dolokhov’s voice had completely lost all expression. Pierre felt his back and shoulders press against the wall and subsequently realised that he must have taken a third step back out of fear of Dolokhov’s misdirected anger. “ _And?_ ”

“And,” Pierre squeaked, and then cleared his throat, even though there was no direct threat against him, “he told Anatole’s father.”

Dolokhov made a face, leaned forward, and patted Pierre on the shoulder. “Well, my good fellow, you did your best,” he said, surprisingly gently. “Or you prevented a duel, at least.”

Hélène slunk out of the room, looking surprised but not utterly horrified. “Listen, listen,” she said, trying to grab Anatole and Dolokhov’s hands.

Dolokhov brushed her off, but he still gently squeezed her hand. “Let me talk to him.”

“You should go too, Anatole,” Hélène said, in what appeared to be the interests of damage control. Although he didn’t seem willing, Anatole nodded slowly, and let go of Dolokhov’s arm.

Hélène cast a look towards the door as Anatole and Dolokhov went through, and then threw herself bodily into Pierre’s arms, dragging him through into a lounge. He yelped and tripped over onto a couch. “Petrushka, it’s _wonderful_ ,” she all but squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck and smothering his face with kisses.

“…Wonderful?” Pierre first thought that she was just enjoying conflict, but then he remembered that she genuinely adored her little brother, _and_ Dolokhov. “I would have said traumatic.”

“Oh no no no,” Hélène was practically giddy with glee. She dragged Pierre down and whispered in his ear, gripping onto his shoulders fervently. “Now this stays strictly between us two, Petrushka, you hear me?” she said. She looked around theatrically to make sure that nobody else was in the room with them. “Our father,” she said, “was not furious with Fedya, _or_ with Anatole,” she explained.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m _getting_ to that,” she said. “Now listen, listen.” She grinned. “Our father was furious with the officer who ratted them out!” Pierre still didn’t grasp the subject. “Petrushka, look at me,” Hélène said, seeing that this would require a full explanation. “Our father, Prince Vasily Kuragin, is _also_ attracted to men.” Pierre’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “He came here to find the man who walked in on them and challenge him.”

“Your _father_?” Pierre asked, clearly digesting this information. Remembering himself, he hugged Hélène back, and she giggled excitedly. “I…” He started to say that he couldn’t believe it, but then realised that yes, he could. “That’s _wonderful_ , Hélène.”

“Now, how many duels is that we’ve thwarted since yesterday?” Hélène asked, getting up and pouring them each a small tumbler of vodka. “I think this deserves celebrating.”

Pierre, even though he was hung over, nodded in agreement, and took the less full tumbler. However, neither one of them got the chance to drink any, as there was a suddenly shouting from the hallway. Hélène was running out of patience with Dolokhov and her brother’s drama, so she downed the vodka and stormed out into the hall. Pierre followed her, partly out of curiosity but partly for moral support. She was probably more likely than him to put her fist through somebody’s nose but at the same time she _was_ only five foot tall.

Anatole had apparently surpassed reasoning and had taken his father’s meaning, and was now engaged in knocking his head rhythmically against the architrave around the door out of frustration at Dolokhov’s inability to sit down and listen to somebody for more than ten seconds. Hélène put the palm of her hand between his forehead and the wood.

“Will you _listen_ to me?” Vasily Kuragin was making a valiant effort to remain calm, which was no small feat in the face of a truly _angry_ Dolokhov.

Hélène surreptitiously reached her hand to his belt and, as though defusing a bomb, took the pistol out from his belt. Holding it by the muzzle, she lifted it slightly above his shoulder so that her father could see what she had done, and then transferred it to Pierre, who baulked momentarily but kept hold of it.

“Oh I’m listening _perfectly well_ , old man,” Dolokhov growled, his voice rising from a low dangerous hiss to an all-out, animalistic shout. Pierre leaned backwards, still holding the gun by the muzzle. “I’ve heard _everything_ you’ve said.” He was still shouting, but his voice was frighteningly monotonous. Either way, he clearly _hadn’t_ heard every word Prince Vasily had said.

“No, you clearly _weren’t_ listening, Fyodor,” Vasily said, still laudably calm, his hands spread slightly in front of him in a placating gesture. “I don’t know what you heard, but the reason I came here _wasn’t_ to challenge you, it was to see that you and my son were unhurt, and to challenge the man who threatened you myself.”

Anatole had stopped hitting his head against the architrave, and reached forward to pull Dolokhov back and try to reiterate the point. Dolokhov shrugged him off. “Well if it’s a duel you _want_ , a duel you shall _have_. Here, if you like.” Hélène pressed her face into her hands. Pierre groaned and rubbed his temples. Anatole went back to hitting his head against the architrave.

By the time anybody had the forethought to try to reason with Dolokhov, he had whirled around on Pierre, retrieved his pistol, and stormed out. Hélène thought the architrave looked particularly inviting.

“Good lord,” Prince Vasily said, raising his eyebrows. “Is he always like that?” he asked, as Pierre pulled Anatole away from the door to stop him from knocking himself unconscious. “Obviously, I would much rather _not_ duel him,” the old Prince continued, “but I must defend myself, if it’s what he wants to do.”

Anatole groaned and rubbed his forehead. “How can anybody have _that_ poor of a grasp on what is being said to him?”

“Now, my boy,” Prince Vasily said, stopping to back sure Anatole hadn’t concussed himself, “what was the name of this officer?”

Anatole shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him, and you’d have to ask…” He tipped his head towards the door.

“It was, uh…” Hélène frowned. “Grigori… something.”

“Grigori Something,” Prince Vasili repeated, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Interesting name.”

“Yes, not from these parts,” Hélène said, humourlessly. “Oh, father, you don’t know what he’s like,” she groaned. “A man can’t get a nickname like ‘Dolokhov the Assassin’ without doing some… well… without doing some _assassinating_.”

“I was in the _army_ , my girl!” Prince Vasily said, draping his arm over Hélène’s shoulders and ruffling her hair as one might with a much younger child. “I’m no stranger to a bit of, eh…” He mimed fencing. Hélène giggled and made no effort to resettle her hair. “Well, I may as well try to sort out, eh? Get things straightened out; since I don’t think I’ll be finding a wife for _that_ boy I may as well try to fix matters with Dolokhov.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is saved on word quite literally as "dolokhov is a sad idiot"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kinda......decided against writing the buildup to the duel but assume that it was very tense. as you can probably tell i have no idea how to write a duel but anyway. (sorry im so sorry this is the worst chapter omg.)

 

“You’re annoyed,” Dolokhov said, raising his eyebrows, when Anatole snatched away his offered hand and hopped up into the troika. Perhaps it wasn’t the most sensible comment he could have made, but he was feeling antagonistic that day, even if it was misdirected and he didn’t want to hurt Anatole.

The troika lurched off, and for a few minutes, Anatole and Dolokhov stared out of the window, until Anatole leaned over and forcefully turned Dolokhov’s head towards him. “I’m _worried_ ,” he all but snarled, before dropped his hand away from Dolokhov’s face and turning away to look out of the window. “Because if _you_ die…” He trailed off, sulking.

“You’ll never forgive me, I’m sure.” Dolokhov laughed sarcastically, crossing one foot over the other and wrapping his arm around Anatole’s waist. Even though he felt that he probably should, Anatole leaned into his shoulder and tilted his head to the side so that Dolokhov could kiss his cheek. “You know,” Dolokhov said, waiting for a moment for Anatole to look over at him. “We’ve an hour, and…” He leaned up to brush his fingers against the roof of the troika.

Anatole laughed – thankfully – but still shook his head. “No chance.” But he still allowed Dolokhov to hook his free arm a little closer around his waist. Still he pushed Dolokhov away, as much as he didn’t want to, when Dolokhov pressed closer against him. “Don’t you start.” He tapped Dolokhov playfully on the nose. “Because you will not get _anything_ until we’re done here.”

Dolokhov huffed, but still released Anatole, clenching and flexing his hands. “Well,” he teased, “if I shoot completely awry you’ll know the reason.” Anatole laughed and moved Dolokhov’s arm so that he could lean against his side.

Pierre was waiting for them when they arrived, and only had one thing to say to them. “Are you quite… sure about this, Dolokhov?” Which was a fair question, Anatole supposed. Dolokhov seemed calmer now, even though he was still frustrated. It only made sense to ask.

“Sorry, Pierre,” Dolokhov said, moving to help Anatole out of the troika and then resettling his gloves. Anatole shuddered and put his hands under his arms in the hopes of warming them before going over to Hélène. This left Dolokhov and Pierre alone to talk.

“Does Pierre know how duelling… works?” Anatole asked in a low voice as Hélène took his arm. He would usually have pointed out that Hélène shouldn’t have been there, but for one thing she already knew and for another, she was Hélène. She didn’t care. “He seems confused.” As well as that, he had his hand on Dolokhov’s arm, and seemed to be struggling to walk through the snow.

“He will soon,” Hélène said, without a touch of sarcasm.

Dolokhov had both his and Anatole’s swords, and was directing Pierre how to stake them in the ground as Prince Vasily looked on from the other end of the field. Anatole could just about hear what Dolokhov was saying to Pierre. “Ordinarily it would be the full width of your arms apart, but…” From there, Dolokhov’s voice was lost. Anatole knew roughly where he was going with it either way.

Hélène went to leave, but Anatole gripped at her hand. “Wait,” he said, suddenly seeming vulnerable. “I’m… stay here with me?” he asked softly.

Hélène hadn’t needed him to say anything, but she was touched that he had. She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned into him as the man responsible for making sure the duel was carried out as it should be spoke to Pierre and the doctor. Dolokhov and Prince Vasily had gone to opposite ends of the field.

Pierre returned to Hélène and Anatole and quietly said something in Hélène’s ear. Whatever it was she didn’t like it, and hid her face in Anatole’s side. Anatole would have liked to look away, but he found that he somehow couldn’t. Instead, as Dolokhov and Prince Vasily began to advance upon one another, he put his gloved hand to the side of Hélène’s head.

“Anatole,” Pierre said softly. Anatole nodded, unable to pull away his eyes even as the bile rose in his throat and hoping that Pierre wouldn’t take the lack of eye contact as an insult. “If something happens–”

“I’ll go,” Anatole said immediately. Hélène tightened her grip on his waist and he stroked her hair and hugged her tighter.

“Are you sure?” Pierre was about to continue, but he didn’t get a chance to, as a shot rang out. Anatole panicked and shoved Hélène into Pierre’s arms, confident that he would be able to catch her.

“ _Anatole wait, don’t move!_ ” came from either Dolokhov or Prince Vasily as Anatole’s vision closed in. For a moment, it looked as though nothing had happened and the shot had missed, but then he saw Dolokhov slow down, his foot dragging slightly. Anatole turned and vomited into the snow as Dolokhov’s legs gave way and he fell flat onto his hands and knees.

Logically, Dolokhov knew that he had a few seconds of a grace period before his arm gave way entirely and half of him wanted to fire but he had to–

The thought was stopped. He fired unwittingly down into the snow before he collapsed face-first.

Prince Vasily and the doctor got there first, Hélène, leaving Pierre dragging a half-conscious Anatole back to the troika, getting there a few seconds after the doctor and her father. Almost instantly as she got there she knelt in the snow beside Dolokhov as the doctor carefully rolled him onto his back. “Father, go and help Pierre with Anatole,” she said.

The doctor knelt opposite Hélène so that they were either side of Dolokhov, spreading out his coat before him and leaning his head down close to Dolokhov’s mouth, looking up at Hélène with relief obvious in his eyes when he heard Dolokhov’s ragged breath. “If we don’t get him to safety soon he may well succumb to the cold,” the doctor said, his tone matter-of-fact. “But if we do, he’ll survive, I’m sure.”

“Can I stay with him?” There wasn’t any question in it. Hélène knew that Dolokhov would need one of them there, but Anatole was in no state to be with Dolokhov. “Should I–” She gestured to where the doctor was applying pressure to the gunshot wound.

“No,” the doctor replied. “If he regains consciousness while I try to staunch the bleeding he’s likely to be distressed.” He looked up at her when he felt the flow of blood slow beneath his hands. “However, you would be welcome to accompany me back.” For one thing, he imagined that a familiar face would be welcome.

While the doctor had been talking, Dolokhov had started to come back round which, had he not also been disoriented, would have been very useful. Seeing how blank he looked, Hélène leaned close to his ear and took his hand in both of hers. “Fedya, do you remember what happened?”

“Of course I remember,” Dolokhov grunted, his voice strained. “I got shot.” He winced and turned his head away so that he couldn’t see what the doctor was doing but he could see Hélène (or, more accurately, her thighs as some of her hair where she was leaning close to his face). She put her hand on his cheek.

“Can you get up?” the doctor asked. Dolokhov half-turned, looking blankly at him before nodding. Hélène moved out of the way as the doctor helped Dolokhov up. “I need to cut the bullet out,” he said, his tone matter of fact. Dolokhov went, somehow, even paler than he already was. But he somehow managed to get himself under his own steam to the troika.

Hélène went over to Pierre, who was stood outside the troika Anatole and Dolokhov had arrived in waiting for Anatole and Prince Vasily. “Should Anatole go with him?” Pierre asked softly, expecting to be told from Hélène’s grim expression that Dolokhov hadn’t long for this world.

“No,” Hélène said softly. “I’m going with him.” Pierre nodded. “I ought to tell Anatole,” she said, although she knew that Prince Vasily had stayed around for long enough to know that Dolokhov was still at least clinging to life.

She climbed up into the troika just as Prince Vasily was leaving, to see Anatole sat with his head so low it was practically on his knees. “Anatole?” she put her hand on his back. His head shot up and she could tell it made his vision swim.

“Will he be alright?”

“The only serious injury is to his pride,” Hélène reassured him. Anatole put his arms around her. “I’m going to go back with him. You stay with Pierre and our father,” she ordered.

Anatole nodded. “Take care of him.”

“I will.” She sighed. “Will we be able to convince him that our father doesn’t have it in for him now?” she asked.

“Father is going to talk to him when he’s recovering well,” Anatole said, leaning against her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel like I’m going to…” He gestured vaguely.

“I’ll tell him you’re uninjured, too,” Hélène said as she slipped from the troika, pulling her skirt up.

She walked back across to the troika just at the point at which the doctor had finished removing the bullet from Dolokhov’s shoulder and was bandaging him, now lying half-conscious with a bottle of vodka clutched tightly in his hand. He stayed that way the whole ride back into Moscow, lying with his head in Hélène’s lap, and Hélène gently stroking his hair back from his forehead.

He didn’t speak or even seem to regain consciousness until they finally pulled up at the Kuragin house, when he fervently pulled Hélène closer to him. “Listen, listen.” He was drunk, yes, but also in considerable pain. “My mother, she…” He tailed off, clearly searching for the thread of what he was trying to say. “She can’t know.”

“About the duel?”

“No, she’ll… somebody will have told her about the duel,” Dolokhov said. Hélène couldn’t hide her worry. “she mustn’t know that I’m injured.” Hélène nodded, thinking that would be that. “It would be the end of her.” He finally released her hand. Hélène almost made a comment about the state Anatole had been in, but she figured that he would hear about that first-hand as soon as he was back in.

Instead, to distract him from the pain of being jostled out of the cart by the doctor, who could only be _so_ gentle, she nodded and took his hand. She had never had any feelings of protection towards anybody except, on occasion, Anatole (and even him only when he wasn’t being completely stupid or sleeping around), but she felt dreadful for Dolokhov. Thus, she helped him into bed, and then left when the doctor went to change the bandage on his shoulder.

Pierre and Anatole had already returned, but she hadn’t had the time to stop and talk to them. But now, after she had changed out of her waterlogged, bloody clothes, she went into the room where they were both sat, Anatole wrapped in a blanket and drinking tea on a couch while Pierre sat on an armchair and read.


End file.
